Yeoman Malulani Jael "MJ" MacMurray

Yeoman Malulani jael "MJ" MacMurray, Le'Nofaythen'Shayshleh

At the one of the oars of a longboat dispatched from the Arrow, a Yeoman of the sixth pulls hard to help land the T'Nanshi Marines. This force of arcane archers, trained by Raine, pose ready to leap ashore and assist in cover fire for the troops attacking across the northern bridge and heading for the Voivode.

As first light filters through the swampy air, something in the river stirs and the water starts to bubble toward the boat. A giant viper head breaks the water near MJ's side of the boat.

"Hold!" MJ hisses barely above a whisper drawing her oar up out of the water. She trusts her elven companions to hear her and hopes her voice doesn't carry across the river. The elven archers stop rowing and the boat continues to glide forward past the viper as it gazes into MJ's eyes. MJ holds the viper's gaze until the boat is past and the viper disappears into the mists. MJ dips her oar back into the water and so do her company and they continue across the river. The boat beaches on the muddy bank east of the enemies lines and her passengers leap nearly as one from the craft and scramble into the undergrowth. Leaping out behind them the Yeoman pulls her very cute longbow from her pouch and squints trying to see what her elvish counterparts can.

"Nevermind, hoovaire," chuckles one of the marines at her side. "You just point, we'll shoot."

"Alright," the woman grumbles good-naturaly. Working their way west along the slippery bank, the contingent of arcane archers move carefully in sight of the bridge and the Drotid army.

As the sun rises, and the first assault commences from the invaders, the archers rise to reveal their position and begin a rain of magic and arrows upon the Shahesk warriors. MJ pulls her first arrow and sends it sailing into a warrior, it rattles off his breast plate, not stopping to worry about the bad shot, MJ falls into the familiar pattern of suck in a breath, draw her string, aim, then loose. The rhythm of the steady draw of breaths and the pull of the string under her fingers. becomes her mantra. There is no time for thoughts or words. The archers move up closer and closer to the battleline. MJ starts to mind how close they are getting to the towering lizardkin. No need to get to close she thinks. Then she spies a contingent of sharp-shooters and kobolds creeping up under the cover of a small hillock.

"Sic!" She shouts drawing attention by letting an arrow fly. The small gambit by the sharp-shooters is over in moments as they become walking pincushions before they even realize they are dead.

There is a sudden lull in the line as most of the Strike Force have passed over the bridge and forded the river. The red-headed Yeoman stops sends a silent prayer to O'Ma for his protection and scans the melee anxiously.

"Nagafah!" comes the call and wounded are hauled back toward the riverbank. MJ drops to her knees by one of the fallen and sets to work with her bandages and ointments. She kisses her amulet and moves to the next wounded. Her skills cannot bring back the dead. But pulling out arrows and stitching nasty gashes until the real healers can see to them, is enough to get some back on their feet.

"Ood hootz v' doovar loobritah!"

MJ darts for the river crossing and wades back toward the supply depot. Running, toward the medical tent first she scoops up some of the healing kits and potions and stuffs them into an impossible small bag. Then she visits the weapon depot and does the same with quivers of arrows. Running them back across the river, she deposits them on the ground at the top of the bank. Quickly hands pass around the arrows and potions.

For the long battle, MJ steadfastly cares for the wounded and runs for supplies. At one point, she raises her eyes to the sky to see the fantastic battle of dragons above their heads.

At another point, their supply position is nearly overrun and the wounded must be protected. MJ's bowstring twangs with each arrow plucked from her quiver and then with a flick of practiced ease changes to her long-swords desperately trying to defend a solider lying under her feet. She takes a cut across her right shoulder from a halberd which drops her to one knee. Snarling with the pain, MJ rises and doubles her efforts to parry the blows of the towering Shahesk until someone can come to her aid and cut the warrior down.

Then there is a sense of sudden silence. The clamor of battle is gone. There are no more dragons in the sky. No more Shahesk or Shaugin or kobolds to shoot. There is just the wounded. MJ sucks in her breath and pulls off her helm. She gives her blades a quick wipe and unstrings her bow. Then she rubs some T'Nanshi healing salve on her own wound and then bends once again to tend to the wounds of her comrades in arms.